Estonia is no more sovereign than Haiti

In misery we seem aware of our own existence, even though it may be in the form of a monstrous egotism.-- Graham Greene

Perhaps my emendations on Virily pass muster in the risible sense. I had forgotten that I had saved the piece in the weeks prior to my rupture with Clarity Media, and it was an easy feint to adapt, one all seasoned writers learn, and it is oddly perfect to expand, seasoned with basil, to spice up my non-fiction collection. I will probably not last too long, however, with Natalie's overzealous plagiarism checks, on this Baltic mock up. Niume's staff does it too, but they have sense enough to see I have standards, and leave me alone (I think). Here I can engage the whimsy of telling Vladimir Putin to go fuck himself, so as to secure not dying in senility, but the Baltic millennials would sooner drop an ovum than allow my decorum breaches to fester, not with the bear's breath always in their downwind. Greene himself is one of the most influential least read authors on my psyche, though The End of the Affair is tawdry even with the Feinnes upgrade.
It does illustrate the failure to which I allude far better than I can bully my way into it, even if Bendrix is disillusioned on an entirely different pretext. Greene's voice is not so dissimilar to mine, both brutalized, but where Greene is stark and sacrificial, I am a vengeance ride with the flat of my foot on the gas, waiting to be put down like a rabid travesty. I wasn't able to truly work last night. Groin pain, impaction becoming more symptomatic, I have to coax myself into hatred of Debra Horne's peasant sloping posture to shed anxiety over a lateral transfer fall, and how much longer murder will keep me aloft is anyone's guess: this is part of the failure. In a seven year effort to bind both worlds, as I once hoped I could help Linda Dezenski do, I have transposed the thesis and become a rolling hate crime whose any explicit detail would merit another visit by law enforcement. The same thing might have happened, invariably, if the state had left me institutionalized, instead of matriculating, educating me into indentured servitude, a few steps removed from how harsh it was for Helen Keller. These intestinal battles knock the wind out of me, and my shins need a rest. Then I hope I stabilize, but if I do make a minor news item on a first arrest warrant, I suppose it is unfortunate. I've been driven that far, nearly 60.